Friday, January 16, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
It's Not Just My Nose That's Norwegian
Thank you to everyone for your sympathy and advice regarding the pain in the coccyx (doesn't that sound mildly vulgar?). I haven't decided whether to just gut out the last month of pregnancy or whether to be proactive about fixing it.
I have a confession to make.
Now as a warning, the confession goes against the grain of social convention and I'm pretty sure I'm going to offend some people's moral positions and personal sensibilities. I might lose friends over this.
I love winter.
I'm not just talking about fires and peppermint hot chocolate and Santa Claus and white snowdrifts, although I do love all of those things. I love crusty snow and dirty snow and slushy snow. I love when Grant Wayment announces red burn days when a single fire could cause the trapped pollution in the Salt Lake Valley to ignite, causing obedient Latter-day Saints to feel the Apocalypse is here and start consuming their food storage. (I personally will be feasting on dried red wheat and cans of corn, washing those down with stale water. I don't think that counts as obedient yet.) I love icicles that hang from the house, but I also love ice patches on the ground. In Quebec, I went tracting in negative forty degree weather (that's in Celcius AND Fahrenheit, thank you very much) and I loved the icicles that formed on my eyelashes. I love days when I don't see the sun. I love muggy gray skies.
I used to think this had to do with winter sports. I think it's time to be honest with myself. The idea of skiing makes me groan about gathering up that much equipment. Besides, I heard Tyler say this week (and I quote) "I'm really just too good for the sport." I've been sledding once this winter and I manned the camera instead of sitting on the sled and just the idea of the aforementioned tailbone pain bumping down a hill makes me wince. I've never been cross-country skiing or snow shoeing, and while I'd like to think of myself as a winter hiker, I go only a handful of times a year, with most of those ventures remaining on the plowed portion of Millcreek Canyon.
No, I've decided it has more to do with the sweaters. Maybe it's the Norwegian in me, who really likes practical $600 sweaters. Or maybe it's because I relish the fact that in the winter you can always put on another sweater where in summer there's only so much you can take off. But something has led me to keep all 27 sweaters I own in my closet when I can only fit two or three of them over my belly right now.
Which brings me to my point. Does anyone have any sweaters, sized extra large, that I could borrow right now? And do you think Dale of Norway has a maternity line?
I have a confession to make.
Now as a warning, the confession goes against the grain of social convention and I'm pretty sure I'm going to offend some people's moral positions and personal sensibilities. I might lose friends over this.
I love winter.
I'm not just talking about fires and peppermint hot chocolate and Santa Claus and white snowdrifts, although I do love all of those things. I love crusty snow and dirty snow and slushy snow. I love when Grant Wayment announces red burn days when a single fire could cause the trapped pollution in the Salt Lake Valley to ignite, causing obedient Latter-day Saints to feel the Apocalypse is here and start consuming their food storage. (I personally will be feasting on dried red wheat and cans of corn, washing those down with stale water. I don't think that counts as obedient yet.) I love icicles that hang from the house, but I also love ice patches on the ground. In Quebec, I went tracting in negative forty degree weather (that's in Celcius AND Fahrenheit, thank you very much) and I loved the icicles that formed on my eyelashes. I love days when I don't see the sun. I love muggy gray skies.
I used to think this had to do with winter sports. I think it's time to be honest with myself. The idea of skiing makes me groan about gathering up that much equipment. Besides, I heard Tyler say this week (and I quote) "I'm really just too good for the sport." I've been sledding once this winter and I manned the camera instead of sitting on the sled and just the idea of the aforementioned tailbone pain bumping down a hill makes me wince. I've never been cross-country skiing or snow shoeing, and while I'd like to think of myself as a winter hiker, I go only a handful of times a year, with most of those ventures remaining on the plowed portion of Millcreek Canyon.
No, I've decided it has more to do with the sweaters. Maybe it's the Norwegian in me, who really likes practical $600 sweaters. Or maybe it's because I relish the fact that in the winter you can always put on another sweater where in summer there's only so much you can take off. But something has led me to keep all 27 sweaters I own in my closet when I can only fit two or three of them over my belly right now.
Which brings me to my point. Does anyone have any sweaters, sized extra large, that I could borrow right now? And do you think Dale of Norway has a maternity line?
Monday, January 12, 2009
A Question for the Internet at Large
Tailbone pain? Excruciating? Is this another normal thing of pregnancy that I missed the first time around that is killing me the second time?
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Really, It's Just a Change in Date
I know it's probably irresponsible to post a New Year's post when I still have all sorts of Christmas stuff to post about, but it seems like you defeat the purpose of New Year's Resolutions if you make them the third week of January. They are also personal, but something about sharing them on the Internet seems to be a good way of making sure you do them. At least I'm going to try.
The small octopus growing in my tummy (Tyler's tried to get Talmage to say uterus, but so far I'm sticking with tummy) will be here soon, and if I remember the bleary haze of the first weeks of motherhood accurately, I'm pretty sure I will accomplish very little besides milking my son. So here are my goals for this upcoming phase of my life:
1. Milk my son.
2. Not to descend into the bottomless depths of daytime TV. My first year of nursing Talmage I knew what TV show was the best to watch at each half hour interval of the day (the ENTIRE 24 hours of the day) and by the best, I mean that I watched more Judge Judy than anyone should watch in a lifetime. There is no more depressing picture of motherhood than listening to a husband berate his sixth wife who is currently having an affair with a man 20 years her junior, all while nursing a baby. That first year cured me of television in general, and the only show I currently watch is "The Office." My goal is to keep it that way.
3. To continue getting out everyday. Pretty much every mother I've ever talked to has told me that's near impossible with two kids, but this has been the secret to my sanity as a mother. I plan to continue enjoying being a mother and I'm going to do everything I can to take Talmage and the new one to as many places as just Talmage and I go. Which means you can expect new fun-filled information about the zoo.
If I remember my post-partum body from last time, I think raw hamburger would really be the most apt description. It was just as malleable as well. Now a lot of the mommy body I've decided to just love and accept, but I think for my own health I need at least one physically oriented goal:
4. Run the Provo Half-Marathon in August. My mom has also committed to do this. See Deirdre? Now the Internet knows you've committed. You're stuck.
No New Years Resolution list would be complete without the goal I've been making nearly weekly for the past eight years. Truthfully, I'm really tired of making it, so this will be the final time:
5. Read my scriptures daily.
Five goals, huh? Not so bad. I'm going to do it.
This next part might seem self-serving, but I've really enjoyed blogging this past (almost a) year and I thought it might be kind of a fun tradition to include some highlights of the writing I'm most proud of this year. So here you go.
Second-seventh Night
In honor of this year's Second-seventh night, I'm posting the above picture which features Rob and Ty eating a dessert composed of scoops of ice cream garnished with precisely three jelly beans. Now if that isn't a mysterious food product, I don't know what is.
2 Years, 7 Months, and 13 Days Past September 24, 2005
Before I had you, I was a little nervous about being a mother. I wanted to be a mother, but I enjoyed researching and working so much that I was nervous to begin what I saw as the monotony of motherhood. I was worried I had twenty stir-crazy years ahead of me. I needn't have worried. I didn't count on the overwhelming love that filled me when you graced your Daddy and me with your arrival. You were 22 inches of slimy, screaming loveliness.
Men I Have Loved Not Platonically, From Crushing From Afar to Loving Passionately (In Roughly Chronologically Order)
3. Scott Kesten and Dustin Goodrich I list them together because when Mrs. Bush's first grade class found out I had a crush on Scott, I immediately traded my affections for Dustin. Apparently they were interchangeable.
Loving Long Locks (She's Been Blaming It On My Dad For Years. But I Know Who Never Let Me Cut My Hair.)
While on duty, my dad wrote The Most Romantic Letter Ever Written to his fiance, Mom. Perhaps I should caps the letter, so as to emphasize how truly, it was THE MOST ROMANTIC LETTER EVER WRITTEN. It included phrases like "I don't have much to say, except I love and need you. That need is very real, as is the love. I honestly think that I would do most anything for you; I would do anything that you asked me to do." Considering it was coming from an intelligent (albeit snarky), attractive man whose dimples showed even in his serious army photo and who was honorably serving his country, an engineer who used semicolons correctly FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, my mom might have considered herself a pretty lucky gal.
She's Very Licky, Too
Lu would also like your attention. She Would Like You to Throw Her Ball. Lu frequently will leave her ball at your feet and then pounce on it for the next twenty minutes, saying "Did you notice there is a ball right here? There is. I would like for you to throw it. Right now. Maybe you missed it. Because it's right here. And now would be a good time for you to throw it. You can think about if for another two seconds if you like, but after that I'm going be really insistent about the throwing of the ball, which, incidentally I would like you to do. Right now. RIIIIIIIGHT now. Right now."
Epiphany
I went through a period of life as a vegetarian, a moral decision fueled mainly by Disney movies that led me to believe that all species of the animal kingdom including earthworms and paramecia experience a full range of emotion and comprehension. I am no longer a vegetarian, but I still fall subject to this delusion, like when I admitted to my brother Sean that while I know that insects lack a central nervous system and can't feel pain, I still wanted his medical opinion on whether I should let the wasp who I had just removed from a puddle of syrup dry off or if I should just put him out of his misery. Tyler screams for me when he sees a spider, not because he's afraid of them as some friends have mistakenly believed, but because I need to gently and humanely remove it from the house. Sometimes I make it a little bed out of a matchbox and cottonballs and tuck it in for the night.
Pajama Pants Roll Call
5. 2004 Light blue with a small polka-dot print. I wore these pants when I was staining the fence, including when I sat on the bench with spilled stain on it, yielding pants that look like their stained by _____. Marissa commented yesterday, "Laura, you need to throw those _____-stained pants away." And I said, "It only looks like _____ stain. It's actually wood stain." And she said, "But it looks like _____ stain. Isn't that really the problem?" To which I NOW respond "Get off my back. You clearly are the most vocal critic of my pajama pants. And I keeping the _____-stained pants."
Tyler Howe: The Ultimate Kissing He-Man
So, behind my back, mind you, Tyler went to the library and convinced Talmage to check out He-man (and I'm told it took some serious convincing). Because really, what's more masculine than the words "he" and "man" put together? And what's more tough than a ripply muscled advertisement for the Aryan race whose lips move about as if independent from the rest of his body? And can you even imagine the intuition it took for his fabulous secret powers to be revealed to him the day he held aloft his magic sword and said, "By the power of Grayskull, I. Have. The. POWER?" I mean, how many word combinations do you think he had to try before he stumbled on that exact phrasing and the fabulous powers were revealed? Two? Ten? Ten thousand?
The Insomnia. It's Back
I told [my dad] that it's very difficult to go back to sleep when you're outside in the cold running around the neighborhood. The front yards on Twinbrook St aren't very conducive to early morning napping, particularly when you're the bishop of Twinbrook St. The Petersons probably won't look at it too favorably when they wonder, "Who's that homeless guy in the red sweatsuit with socks on his hands sleeping in the driveway? Oh wait, that's just Bishop Paulsen."
Nine Things I Am Irrationally Vain About
I make a killer salad. I'm so obnoxiously proud of this that when someone complimented me about the last salad I made (with yellow peppers instead of red peppers so that combined with the tomatoes the color palette would be aesthetically pleasing and with an array of artfully spread avocados) I said, "Oh this? This isn't even a fancy salad."
The Play By Play of Events Leading Up To and Surrounding September 24, 2005
September 24, 3:00 am. The hospital calls with a bed for me. I tell them I'll be there in 15 minutes. I have a momentary crisis, because I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to wear my LDS underwear to the hospital, so I instead shimmy a lacy black lingerie-style thong up over my pregnant thighs and hitch it up under my swollen and stretch-marked belly.
Who Would Believe Such Abuse and Neglect? And From Such An Attractive Family
At that point Tyler recommended pinning him in his crib, and I tell you what, nothing so mildly abusive has ever sounded better. Tyler placed movable fence pieces on top of the crib, tied them to the posts using a variety of Boy Scout knots, and we locked him in. He was asleep moments later. Talmage referred to it as his cage for several months.
And then we locked him in a closet filled with shards of glass and Draino.
Last Christmas You Gave Me Your Heart; The Very Next Day, You Gave It Away
Our conversation sounded a bit like a father and a daughter when the daughter desperately wants a puppy:
"But we kill [the tree] every year."
"I won't this year, I promise. I'll water it and love it and take it on a walk everyday."
"It will be a fire hazard."
"It won't. I promise, promise, promise."
The small octopus growing in my tummy (Tyler's tried to get Talmage to say uterus, but so far I'm sticking with tummy) will be here soon, and if I remember the bleary haze of the first weeks of motherhood accurately, I'm pretty sure I will accomplish very little besides milking my son. So here are my goals for this upcoming phase of my life:
1. Milk my son.
2. Not to descend into the bottomless depths of daytime TV. My first year of nursing Talmage I knew what TV show was the best to watch at each half hour interval of the day (the ENTIRE 24 hours of the day) and by the best, I mean that I watched more Judge Judy than anyone should watch in a lifetime. There is no more depressing picture of motherhood than listening to a husband berate his sixth wife who is currently having an affair with a man 20 years her junior, all while nursing a baby. That first year cured me of television in general, and the only show I currently watch is "The Office." My goal is to keep it that way.
3. To continue getting out everyday. Pretty much every mother I've ever talked to has told me that's near impossible with two kids, but this has been the secret to my sanity as a mother. I plan to continue enjoying being a mother and I'm going to do everything I can to take Talmage and the new one to as many places as just Talmage and I go. Which means you can expect new fun-filled information about the zoo.
If I remember my post-partum body from last time, I think raw hamburger would really be the most apt description. It was just as malleable as well. Now a lot of the mommy body I've decided to just love and accept, but I think for my own health I need at least one physically oriented goal:
4. Run the Provo Half-Marathon in August. My mom has also committed to do this. See Deirdre? Now the Internet knows you've committed. You're stuck.
No New Years Resolution list would be complete without the goal I've been making nearly weekly for the past eight years. Truthfully, I'm really tired of making it, so this will be the final time:
5. Read my scriptures daily.
Five goals, huh? Not so bad. I'm going to do it.
This next part might seem self-serving, but I've really enjoyed blogging this past (almost a) year and I thought it might be kind of a fun tradition to include some highlights of the writing I'm most proud of this year. So here you go.
Second-seventh Night
In honor of this year's Second-seventh night, I'm posting the above picture which features Rob and Ty eating a dessert composed of scoops of ice cream garnished with precisely three jelly beans. Now if that isn't a mysterious food product, I don't know what is.
2 Years, 7 Months, and 13 Days Past September 24, 2005
Before I had you, I was a little nervous about being a mother. I wanted to be a mother, but I enjoyed researching and working so much that I was nervous to begin what I saw as the monotony of motherhood. I was worried I had twenty stir-crazy years ahead of me. I needn't have worried. I didn't count on the overwhelming love that filled me when you graced your Daddy and me with your arrival. You were 22 inches of slimy, screaming loveliness.
Men I Have Loved Not Platonically, From Crushing From Afar to Loving Passionately (In Roughly Chronologically Order)
3. Scott Kesten and Dustin Goodrich I list them together because when Mrs. Bush's first grade class found out I had a crush on Scott, I immediately traded my affections for Dustin. Apparently they were interchangeable.
Loving Long Locks (She's Been Blaming It On My Dad For Years. But I Know Who Never Let Me Cut My Hair.)
While on duty, my dad wrote The Most Romantic Letter Ever Written to his fiance, Mom. Perhaps I should caps the letter, so as to emphasize how truly, it was THE MOST ROMANTIC LETTER EVER WRITTEN. It included phrases like "I don't have much to say, except I love and need you. That need is very real, as is the love. I honestly think that I would do most anything for you; I would do anything that you asked me to do." Considering it was coming from an intelligent (albeit snarky), attractive man whose dimples showed even in his serious army photo and who was honorably serving his country, an engineer who used semicolons correctly FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, my mom might have considered herself a pretty lucky gal.
She's Very Licky, Too
Lu would also like your attention. She Would Like You to Throw Her Ball. Lu frequently will leave her ball at your feet and then pounce on it for the next twenty minutes, saying "Did you notice there is a ball right here? There is. I would like for you to throw it. Right now. Maybe you missed it. Because it's right here. And now would be a good time for you to throw it. You can think about if for another two seconds if you like, but after that I'm going be really insistent about the throwing of the ball, which, incidentally I would like you to do. Right now. RIIIIIIIGHT now. Right now."
Epiphany
I went through a period of life as a vegetarian, a moral decision fueled mainly by Disney movies that led me to believe that all species of the animal kingdom including earthworms and paramecia experience a full range of emotion and comprehension. I am no longer a vegetarian, but I still fall subject to this delusion, like when I admitted to my brother Sean that while I know that insects lack a central nervous system and can't feel pain, I still wanted his medical opinion on whether I should let the wasp who I had just removed from a puddle of syrup dry off or if I should just put him out of his misery. Tyler screams for me when he sees a spider, not because he's afraid of them as some friends have mistakenly believed, but because I need to gently and humanely remove it from the house. Sometimes I make it a little bed out of a matchbox and cottonballs and tuck it in for the night.
Pajama Pants Roll Call
5. 2004 Light blue with a small polka-dot print. I wore these pants when I was staining the fence, including when I sat on the bench with spilled stain on it, yielding pants that look like their stained by _____. Marissa commented yesterday, "Laura, you need to throw those _____-stained pants away." And I said, "It only looks like _____ stain. It's actually wood stain." And she said, "But it looks like _____ stain. Isn't that really the problem?" To which I NOW respond "Get off my back. You clearly are the most vocal critic of my pajama pants. And I keeping the _____-stained pants."
Tyler Howe: The Ultimate Kissing He-Man
So, behind my back, mind you, Tyler went to the library and convinced Talmage to check out He-man (and I'm told it took some serious convincing). Because really, what's more masculine than the words "he" and "man" put together? And what's more tough than a ripply muscled advertisement for the Aryan race whose lips move about as if independent from the rest of his body? And can you even imagine the intuition it took for his fabulous secret powers to be revealed to him the day he held aloft his magic sword and said, "By the power of Grayskull, I. Have. The. POWER?" I mean, how many word combinations do you think he had to try before he stumbled on that exact phrasing and the fabulous powers were revealed? Two? Ten? Ten thousand?
The Insomnia. It's Back
I told [my dad] that it's very difficult to go back to sleep when you're outside in the cold running around the neighborhood. The front yards on Twinbrook St aren't very conducive to early morning napping, particularly when you're the bishop of Twinbrook St. The Petersons probably won't look at it too favorably when they wonder, "Who's that homeless guy in the red sweatsuit with socks on his hands sleeping in the driveway? Oh wait, that's just Bishop Paulsen."
Nine Things I Am Irrationally Vain About
I make a killer salad. I'm so obnoxiously proud of this that when someone complimented me about the last salad I made (with yellow peppers instead of red peppers so that combined with the tomatoes the color palette would be aesthetically pleasing and with an array of artfully spread avocados) I said, "Oh this? This isn't even a fancy salad."
The Play By Play of Events Leading Up To and Surrounding September 24, 2005
September 24, 3:00 am. The hospital calls with a bed for me. I tell them I'll be there in 15 minutes. I have a momentary crisis, because I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to wear my LDS underwear to the hospital, so I instead shimmy a lacy black lingerie-style thong up over my pregnant thighs and hitch it up under my swollen and stretch-marked belly.
Who Would Believe Such Abuse and Neglect? And From Such An Attractive Family
At that point Tyler recommended pinning him in his crib, and I tell you what, nothing so mildly abusive has ever sounded better. Tyler placed movable fence pieces on top of the crib, tied them to the posts using a variety of Boy Scout knots, and we locked him in. He was asleep moments later. Talmage referred to it as his cage for several months.
And then we locked him in a closet filled with shards of glass and Draino.
Last Christmas You Gave Me Your Heart; The Very Next Day, You Gave It Away
Our conversation sounded a bit like a father and a daughter when the daughter desperately wants a puppy:
"But we kill [the tree] every year."
"I won't this year, I promise. I'll water it and love it and take it on a walk everyday."
"It will be a fire hazard."
"It won't. I promise, promise, promise."
Christmas Break Books: Garden Spells, I Capture the Castle, Writing with Style
I'm a little behind in posting about books which is WONDERFUL. There's nothing I like more than books in my stocking. Somehow they're books untainted by the guilt that I should be doing something else instead of reading. This year Santa brought me so many books that I'll be reading them well into February; this is mostly due to the Kristin Lavransdatter triology that's a couple thousand pages long. Tyler will be pleased; they'll be no boring book posts to muck up an otherwise entertaining blog.
In order from most recently read to least recently read:
The tag lines on the front of the book say "enchanting" and "magical." It was both of those things. It's a New York Times Bestseller, and somehow all bestsellers feel kind of the same to me. I'm not sure if its the writing style or that they were all written recently, but I usually get a little bored by them. This one still felt that way, only the magical elements kept any boredom at bay. I don't know that it inspired any profound thoughts, other than if this were made into a movie, it would be delightful.
This book was an enchanting and magical coming of age story.
As I was reading it I got nervous that the reason I love period movies and books is because they're all romances. Sure, we love Jane Austen because she is quietly humorous about her surroundings and satirizes them a bit and because she creates round characters, but in the end, isn't it really about Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy? Don't you just long for a good Victorian make-out between the two of them?
And why am I embarrassed by that?
I Capture the Castle is quietly humorous. It satirizes it's time period--1930s England--when class matters less in matters of marriage than it did 50 years previous, but it still matters enough. The characters are wonderfully round, and you find yourself growing with Cassandra as she navigates her life and loves.
And it is WONDERFULLY romantic.
I assigned this reading for my advanced writing course because it is a writing manual that is more entertaining than other writing manuals. Trimble calls the book "Conversations on the Art of Writing" and does an excellent job creating a witty conversation. As an example, Trimble comments on someone who is picky about whether you should spell out numbers or use the numerals:
But why write eighteen when it's so much simpler to write 18, and when 18 is easier for readers to remember--not to mention already coverted in the numeral they'll actually use? What can possibly be objectionable about 18? I hear someone answer, "It lacks the dignity of eighteen." Such a person doubtless undresses with the lights out.
My main thoughts in response to this book are that I integrated the readings from this book really poorly into my course instruction. Next time I teach it, I will have reading guides for each assignment.
In order from most recently read to least recently read:
The tag lines on the front of the book say "enchanting" and "magical." It was both of those things. It's a New York Times Bestseller, and somehow all bestsellers feel kind of the same to me. I'm not sure if its the writing style or that they were all written recently, but I usually get a little bored by them. This one still felt that way, only the magical elements kept any boredom at bay. I don't know that it inspired any profound thoughts, other than if this were made into a movie, it would be delightful.
This book was an enchanting and magical coming of age story.
As I was reading it I got nervous that the reason I love period movies and books is because they're all romances. Sure, we love Jane Austen because she is quietly humorous about her surroundings and satirizes them a bit and because she creates round characters, but in the end, isn't it really about Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy? Don't you just long for a good Victorian make-out between the two of them?
And why am I embarrassed by that?
I Capture the Castle is quietly humorous. It satirizes it's time period--1930s England--when class matters less in matters of marriage than it did 50 years previous, but it still matters enough. The characters are wonderfully round, and you find yourself growing with Cassandra as she navigates her life and loves.
And it is WONDERFULLY romantic.
I assigned this reading for my advanced writing course because it is a writing manual that is more entertaining than other writing manuals. Trimble calls the book "Conversations on the Art of Writing" and does an excellent job creating a witty conversation. As an example, Trimble comments on someone who is picky about whether you should spell out numbers or use the numerals:
But why write eighteen when it's so much simpler to write 18, and when 18 is easier for readers to remember--not to mention already coverted in the numeral they'll actually use? What can possibly be objectionable about 18? I hear someone answer, "It lacks the dignity of eighteen." Such a person doubtless undresses with the lights out.
My main thoughts in response to this book are that I integrated the readings from this book really poorly into my course instruction. Next time I teach it, I will have reading guides for each assignment.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Paulsen Family: Where All the Women Are Strong, All the Men are Good Looking, and All the Children Are Above Average*
*Garrison Keillor. Attributed to our family by Ms. Sarah Paulsen.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
The Overheard Logic of a Three Year Old
Talmage: "Hey Tyler!"
Tyler: "I'm Daddy."
Talmage: "No, you TY-ler."
Tyler: "But I'm your Daddy."
Talmage: "You Tyler AND Daddy."
Tyler: "Someday you're going to be a daddy."
Talmage: " . . . And someday you going be a Talmage?"
Tyler: "I'm Daddy."
Talmage: "No, you TY-ler."
Tyler: "But I'm your Daddy."
Talmage: "You Tyler AND Daddy."
Tyler: "Someday you're going to be a daddy."
Talmage: " . . . And someday you going be a Talmage?"
Monday, December 29, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
A Brief Essay About Santa Claus
“Robbie, there isn’t really a Santa Claus. Sorry.”
The tears well up in Robbie’s eyes as he contemplates what his mother is telling him. How could this be? The person he trusts most in this world is now telling him the exact opposite of what she has insisted on since the beginning of time. In Robbie’s short life, he is yet to have experienced a more shocking conflict of beliefs.
Robbie tries to hold onto anything he has left. “Well . . . then . . . are Heavenly Father and Jesus real?”
“Oh, yes!” His mother insists with a little bit of panic. “We were telling you the truth about those two! They are very real.”
Robbie spends the rest of a bittersweet Christmas adjusting his paradigm.
This is a true account of my cousin’s conversation with her son. Most of us have been on both sides of this conversation. Most of us have tasted the disappointment and loss of the transition from “believer” to “nonbeliever.” Is the magic children experience during their years as a “believer” worth the pain caused when the so-called truth about Santa Claus finally surfaces? Absolutely not! However, don’t be too hasty to put the story of Santa Claus on the shelf or to call me a Scrooge. My son, too, went to bed tonight speaking of “Sant.” I am willing to tell my son of Santa Claus because I know what many brilliant people do not know: Santa Claus is real!
I was either eight or nine. While looking at my sister’s dollhouse on Christmas day, I noticed a green material glued to the perimeter of the edifice. The material was clearly meant to represent grass. The material itself was of little importance, but its context got the wheels in my head turning. Two years earlier, we had received a beautiful train set from Santa Claus mounted to a table covered with the same green material. Furthermore, I was acutely aware that a roll of that same green material was stored in our basement.
Mom didn’t hesitate when I presented my evidence to her. She took me to the staircase and closed the door quietly. With her arms around me, she told me the rest of the story.
“Tyler . . . there really is a Santa Claus. He doesn’t live in the North Pole or fly to every house on Christmas Eve. Rather, we all are Santa Claus. Every single person who gives at Christmas time is Santa Claus.”
The significance of this conversation did not fully sink home in that moment. My own paradigm had been thrown for a loop. Clearly, the most jaw dropping discovery for me at that moment was that no one in a red suit actually lived in the North Pole. This put an X on the elves as well, which I found as a relief. Clearly, elves are the creepiest part of the Santa Claus story.
While serving as a missionary in Argentina, I got into a conversation with a companion about Santa Claus. Elder Reid and I walked long distances across a sparse community. Our long walks often lent themselves to profound philosophical topics such as Santa Claus.
As a young boy, David Reid suffered through the same rite of passage most of us do. While sitting in the back of the car, he got the infamous “confession” from his Mom. Balancing her attention on the road and her son seen through the rear-view mirror, David’s mom asked, “Are you OK?” Though Elder Reid assured his mom it was no big deal, he confided in me otherwise. He was devastated by the news—by the deception. I, too, am devastated by the deception. However, I believe the deception began on the day of the confession rather than ended then. Santa is real!
Clearly a three-year old is not yet mature enough to understand the magic of giving. I have one sleeping on the floor next to me right now, and I promise you, he always prefers getting. The fantastical story of Santa Claus is told in a way even he understands. As he grows older, the details will be clarified. Only those who eventually teach their children that Santa is not real deceive their children. Furthermore, they are no longer justified in the fantastical story they have perpetuated for so many years. What a waste!
As I write this, the magic of Christmas blankets the Earth. It’s 11:30 pm on Christmas Eve. My son sleeps in front of a fire in one of two sleeping bags laid out on the floor. I will shortly join him in the other. Tonight is different than any other night. Because I was taught of Santa as a boy and I learned to act as Santa as an adult, my thoughts are different tonight. Tonight, my thoughts celebrate a Santa Claus whose gifts I cherish above all. I feel closer to Him tonight. Whether it be my frame of mind or a true unseen, unexplained magic, I am certain tonight is different than any other. It happens every year. It’s why I can't ever sleep on the night of December the 24th. Merry Christmas!
And . . . Bah Humbug!
The tears well up in Robbie’s eyes as he contemplates what his mother is telling him. How could this be? The person he trusts most in this world is now telling him the exact opposite of what she has insisted on since the beginning of time. In Robbie’s short life, he is yet to have experienced a more shocking conflict of beliefs.
Robbie tries to hold onto anything he has left. “Well . . . then . . . are Heavenly Father and Jesus real?”
“Oh, yes!” His mother insists with a little bit of panic. “We were telling you the truth about those two! They are very real.”
Robbie spends the rest of a bittersweet Christmas adjusting his paradigm.
This is a true account of my cousin’s conversation with her son. Most of us have been on both sides of this conversation. Most of us have tasted the disappointment and loss of the transition from “believer” to “nonbeliever.” Is the magic children experience during their years as a “believer” worth the pain caused when the so-called truth about Santa Claus finally surfaces? Absolutely not! However, don’t be too hasty to put the story of Santa Claus on the shelf or to call me a Scrooge. My son, too, went to bed tonight speaking of “Sant.” I am willing to tell my son of Santa Claus because I know what many brilliant people do not know: Santa Claus is real!
I was either eight or nine. While looking at my sister’s dollhouse on Christmas day, I noticed a green material glued to the perimeter of the edifice. The material was clearly meant to represent grass. The material itself was of little importance, but its context got the wheels in my head turning. Two years earlier, we had received a beautiful train set from Santa Claus mounted to a table covered with the same green material. Furthermore, I was acutely aware that a roll of that same green material was stored in our basement.
Mom didn’t hesitate when I presented my evidence to her. She took me to the staircase and closed the door quietly. With her arms around me, she told me the rest of the story.
“Tyler . . . there really is a Santa Claus. He doesn’t live in the North Pole or fly to every house on Christmas Eve. Rather, we all are Santa Claus. Every single person who gives at Christmas time is Santa Claus.”
The significance of this conversation did not fully sink home in that moment. My own paradigm had been thrown for a loop. Clearly, the most jaw dropping discovery for me at that moment was that no one in a red suit actually lived in the North Pole. This put an X on the elves as well, which I found as a relief. Clearly, elves are the creepiest part of the Santa Claus story.
While serving as a missionary in Argentina, I got into a conversation with a companion about Santa Claus. Elder Reid and I walked long distances across a sparse community. Our long walks often lent themselves to profound philosophical topics such as Santa Claus.
As a young boy, David Reid suffered through the same rite of passage most of us do. While sitting in the back of the car, he got the infamous “confession” from his Mom. Balancing her attention on the road and her son seen through the rear-view mirror, David’s mom asked, “Are you OK?” Though Elder Reid assured his mom it was no big deal, he confided in me otherwise. He was devastated by the news—by the deception. I, too, am devastated by the deception. However, I believe the deception began on the day of the confession rather than ended then. Santa is real!
Clearly a three-year old is not yet mature enough to understand the magic of giving. I have one sleeping on the floor next to me right now, and I promise you, he always prefers getting. The fantastical story of Santa Claus is told in a way even he understands. As he grows older, the details will be clarified. Only those who eventually teach their children that Santa is not real deceive their children. Furthermore, they are no longer justified in the fantastical story they have perpetuated for so many years. What a waste!
As I write this, the magic of Christmas blankets the Earth. It’s 11:30 pm on Christmas Eve. My son sleeps in front of a fire in one of two sleeping bags laid out on the floor. I will shortly join him in the other. Tonight is different than any other night. Because I was taught of Santa as a boy and I learned to act as Santa as an adult, my thoughts are different tonight. Tonight, my thoughts celebrate a Santa Claus whose gifts I cherish above all. I feel closer to Him tonight. Whether it be my frame of mind or a true unseen, unexplained magic, I am certain tonight is different than any other. It happens every year. It’s why I can't ever sleep on the night of December the 24th. Merry Christmas!
And . . . Bah Humbug!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Check Out Those Hips
I was belittled at my first rehearsal for this number. My school secretary told me I didn't have the "womanly hips" to be able to shake it. I took that as a challenge.
I apologize for the quality of the video. This is what happens when you put your video camera into the hands of a fifth grader.
I apologize for the quality of the video. This is what happens when you put your video camera into the hands of a fifth grader.
Fahrenheit 451
I've been meaning to read this book for awhile and I'm glad I did.
Ray Bradbury outlines a futuristic world where humanity's (or just America's) drive for pleasure and entertainment have brought about a world with no conflict of information. Arguably, he details a world where there is no information at all, just visual and actual delight in mindless droning and violence. In this world that seeks pleasure, no one is pleased. People lack meaningful connections. People lack meaning.
At one point in the novel, Montag--who is a "fireman," a person who sets fire to books and the conflicting viewpoints they contain--meets a man named Faber who was once a college professor. The professor outlines three things necessary for thinking to take place: quality, or texture of information; leisure, not for leisure for entertainment's sake, but leisure to digest the quality ideas; and "the right to carry out actions based on what we learn from the interaction of the two" (85). Montag yearns to think and to form connections in a society of people who don't ignore meaning.
As I've thought about my life, the parts that are most meaningful to me fall in one of these three areas. I enjoy receiving textured information--in books, in conversations with people, at church. I'm grateful for time to digest. This blog is the space I've made to digest books, and I'm grateful for the metacognitive nature of writing; when I am serious in my scripture study, that becomes a valuable time for me to knock out ideas. And I'm grateful for the right I have to carry out the ideas I feel to be right; I think the main reason I chose to become a mother was because I believed in a value system that encouraged that. And being a mother and wife is the most valuable thing I have in life.
When I end my art history classes, I tell the students that I don't care whether they remember that Abbot Suger created the Gothic style through pointed arches; I don't care if they remember that Trajan was called "Optimus Maximus." What I do hope for is that my students have practiced thinking about things and thinking in new ways. In the novel, Beatty--the defender of censored lifestyle--describes the "information" the society is fed:
Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely 'brilliant' with information. They they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change.
It's not memorizing data that's important, it's the digesting information that helps people to become better.
More thoughts--
When Faber is describing the quality of information that can be found anywhere, but particularly in books, he explains:
Do you know why books such as [the Bible] are so important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You'd find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. [...] So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life.
I guess I just think that's beautiful. But the idea continues that texture is irrespective of truth, a value that must be sifted out in the digesting of that texture. And then my mind remembered a quote from my favorite play Inherit the Wind that explains why that texture should not be feared. Rachel has just seen her fiance Bert put on trial for teaching Charles Darwin's Origin of the Species in the southern Bible belt. Thinking is on trial, too, and Rachel declares her own verdict:
You see, I haven't really thought very much. I was always afraid of what I might think--so it seemed safer not to think at all. But now I know. A thought is like a child inside our body. It has to be born. If it dies inside you, part of you dies, too! (pointing to [The Origin of the Species]) Maybe what Mr. Darwin wrote is bad. I don't know. Bad or good, it doesn't make any difference. The ideas have to come out--like children. Some of 'em healthy as a bean plant, some sickly. I think the sickly ideas die mostly, don't you, Bert?
I'm grateful for books and for the variety of ideas I encounter through them. I'm grateful for the opportunity to digest ideas and sift out what I know to be true in them. And I'm grateful to live in a society that allows me to act on what I feel to be good.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Just ASKIN For It
So I stirred up a bit of controversy over my least favorite Christmas songs. Particularly "Oh Holy Night." But please, the two octave cresendo? The drama of it all? It fits if you are an opera singer, but if you are Jessica Simpson, you have no business singing that song. I know this is blasphemous, particularly as my best friend Shelley fell in love with at least three boys who sang that song for her. Let's face it, Shelley. Steve Wilken had no business singing that song.
But while I'm in the doghouse, I thought I'd stir the pot a bit and name my top five overrated bands of all time.
5. Queen. I was born in the 80s, raised on the 60s and 70s. Only if you listen to Arrow 103.5 do you know that that line has to be said with all the drama mustered by the preview announcer detailing a Bruce Willis movie. Because in a world where music is of great importance, one era stands alone. THIS is classic rock. (Props to Robert Porter and Buttonhooked who I just stole that line from.) And half the time that I turn to that classic rock station, Freddie Mercury is belting a sports ballad.
Let it be known, this girl has had enough "We Will Rock You."
4. Neil Diamond. I'm pretty sure that my father-in-law just stood up from the computer and vowed never to talk to me. Not my husband though. I think he'll stay with me for Talmage's sake. HE'S NOT SINGING, PEOPLE, HE'S TALKING.
Maybe if he wrote a classic song about a girl named Laura that the Boston Red Sox fans sang at every game. Nope, not even then.
3. Dave Matthews Band. I know they're pretty much defunct, what with the death of their saxophonist, but I didn't understand their lack of melody. Which is ironic, because I'm just fine with progressive rock. Although maybe just Jethro Tull; I've never been a huge Rush fan. Didn't get Dave Matthews Band then, don't get it now. Maybe it was the saxophone. Something Kenny G-ish.
2. Coldplay. I know, I know, they've been hailed as the next U2. But every time I hear the beginning of "Clocks," I feel like I'm hearing the same high pitched incessant noise that I can't shake out of my head. "Viva la Vida" is okay, though. Might as well throw them a bone.
And the number one overrated band:
1. U2. And I'm pretty sure that my brother-in-law Jason has just stood up and left the computer, vowing to never talk to me again. After all, Jason did give me the Greatest Present You Could Ever Receive, the album The Best of 1990-2000, the limited edition PLUS the B-sides PLUS the bonus DVD. And if you go to the music store right now and ask for the limited edition they will laugh. In your face. And my opinion on U2's overratedness in no way diminishes how AWESOME that gift was and is and HOW MUCH I enjoy it. It's just that every roommate I ever had in college had Joshua Tree on repeat. All day. All night. All semester. Now I like "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" as much as the next girl (not as much as Jason. I'd never claim that). But how else do you explain how "With or Without You" was Skyline High School's 1997 Senior Prom theme? How does that make teenage romantic sense?
There's only one answer. The overratedness.
* I think I came off as more offensive than funny in this post. I hope I didn't make anyone feel awkward. I apologize if I did.
But while I'm in the doghouse, I thought I'd stir the pot a bit and name my top five overrated bands of all time.
5. Queen. I was born in the 80s, raised on the 60s and 70s. Only if you listen to Arrow 103.5 do you know that that line has to be said with all the drama mustered by the preview announcer detailing a Bruce Willis movie. Because in a world where music is of great importance, one era stands alone. THIS is classic rock. (Props to Robert Porter and Buttonhooked who I just stole that line from.) And half the time that I turn to that classic rock station, Freddie Mercury is belting a sports ballad.
Let it be known, this girl has had enough "We Will Rock You."
4. Neil Diamond. I'm pretty sure that my father-in-law just stood up from the computer and vowed never to talk to me. Not my husband though. I think he'll stay with me for Talmage's sake. HE'S NOT SINGING, PEOPLE, HE'S TALKING.
Maybe if he wrote a classic song about a girl named Laura that the Boston Red Sox fans sang at every game. Nope, not even then.
3. Dave Matthews Band. I know they're pretty much defunct, what with the death of their saxophonist, but I didn't understand their lack of melody. Which is ironic, because I'm just fine with progressive rock. Although maybe just Jethro Tull; I've never been a huge Rush fan. Didn't get Dave Matthews Band then, don't get it now. Maybe it was the saxophone. Something Kenny G-ish.
2. Coldplay. I know, I know, they've been hailed as the next U2. But every time I hear the beginning of "Clocks," I feel like I'm hearing the same high pitched incessant noise that I can't shake out of my head. "Viva la Vida" is okay, though. Might as well throw them a bone.
And the number one overrated band:
1. U2. And I'm pretty sure that my brother-in-law Jason has just stood up and left the computer, vowing to never talk to me again. After all, Jason did give me the Greatest Present You Could Ever Receive, the album The Best of 1990-2000, the limited edition PLUS the B-sides PLUS the bonus DVD. And if you go to the music store right now and ask for the limited edition they will laugh. In your face. And my opinion on U2's overratedness in no way diminishes how AWESOME that gift was and is and HOW MUCH I enjoy it. It's just that every roommate I ever had in college had Joshua Tree on repeat. All day. All night. All semester. Now I like "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" as much as the next girl (not as much as Jason. I'd never claim that). But how else do you explain how "With or Without You" was Skyline High School's 1997 Senior Prom theme? How does that make teenage romantic sense?
There's only one answer. The overratedness.
* I think I came off as more offensive than funny in this post. I hope I didn't make anyone feel awkward. I apologize if I did.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Hate That Cat
Talmage just said, "Mom, I like you so much." That's why I had children. For the love.
I read Love That Dog by Sharon Creech a couple of years ago and absolutely loved it. This is pretty much the same book. Creech uses a fun format--writing from the perspective of a ten year old who is learning about poetry. The boy's poems compose the novel. I loved the ideas of the first book, that you learn about yourself and experiences by writing about them (that's the main reason I write about books on this blog--because I know what I think about the books when I write about them). It also brought back my love for poetry, a love that kind of got quashed when I spent all my time writing argumentatively. I think I need to throw more books of poetry into my reading list. Any suggestions?
This book explored some of the tools for writing poetry--figurative language, meter, etc. I also liked that the boy changes his opinion during the year; as he writes about an idea he finds that idea evolving.
My favorite poem in the book is inspired by Alfred Lord Tennyson:
The Kitten
She pats the package with padded paws
and pulls apart the golden gauze
with her tiny furry jaws.
The like an acrobat she leaps
legs and ribbon in a heap
tangled round and tangled deep.
I like words.
I do want to read Walk Two Moons now. Creech won a Newberry for that book and I've heard many people recommend it.
Okay, that's all.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
How I Know I Am GREAT With Child
1. One standard size towel is no longer sufficient to modestly cover me after I get out of the shower.
2. Last week at church everyone told me how great I looked. This week everyone asked me "So WHEN are you due?"
3. Today the bakery counter at Smith's asked me if I felt like I was going to pop.
4. My jeans don't stay up. You need hips for that kind of action.
5. The old stretch marks have been restretched.
6. Talmage asked me today, "Hey! How your tummy get so big?"
7. When resting my book on my belly last night, it started bouncing around when the kid rolled over.
8. My belly button is threatening to pop. As Tyler has told me that this is the only thing that could possibly happen to make me unattractive to him, I'm a little nervous.
2. Last week at church everyone told me how great I looked. This week everyone asked me "So WHEN are you due?"
3. Today the bakery counter at Smith's asked me if I felt like I was going to pop.
4. My jeans don't stay up. You need hips for that kind of action.
5. The old stretch marks have been restretched.
6. Talmage asked me today, "Hey! How your tummy get so big?"
7. When resting my book on my belly last night, it started bouncing around when the kid rolled over.
8. My belly button is threatening to pop. As Tyler has told me that this is the only thing that could possibly happen to make me unattractive to him, I'm a little nervous.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Last Christmas You Gave Me Your Heart; The Very Next Day I Gave It Away
I've had some questions on the Christmas tree.
Tyler and I are approaching our seventh Christmas as a married couple. There are a couple of unresolved differences in our marriage. I would like him to eat wheat bread. He'd like me to leave him alone about the white bread. I'd like him to care just a little bit less about football (I know, that's blasphemous). He'd like me to be grateful he's not into baseball.
And most importantly right now, I'd like a real Christmas tree. Tyler would like a fake one.
Last year when we were poor teachers, I caved and we borrowed a fake tree. It was fine and I was grateful we had any tree at all, even though faking a tree is kind of like faking Christmas. This year we are wealthy teachers, and I knew that we were back to piney business as usual. Tyler, however, took last year as a precedent and assumed we were buying our own artificial holiday.
Our conversation sounded a bit like a father and a daughter when the daughter desperately wants a puppy (a conversation I happen to remember a lot about).
"But we kill it every year."
"I won't this year, I promise. I'll water it and love it and take it on a walk everyday."
"It will be a fire hazard."
"It won't. I promise, promise, promise."
Tyler's infallible logic was working until I whipped up a fresh batch of tears.
We bought a real tree.
And, as a note to anyone who comments on this, if you try to tell me how much more practical fake trees are, I wish you a lump of coal in your stocking.
This weekend we also pulled out the Christmas playlist, and I have, for your reading pleasure, my top best and worst Christmas songs.
BEST:
5. "Oh Savior Thou Who Wearest a Crown of Piercing Thorns." It's in the hymn book. Apparently 15 years long friends are picky about how this is an Easter song. Fine. I change this one to "Coventry Carol."
4. "Baby It's Cold Outside." I'm kind of partial to the Ella Fitzgerald version.
3. Barenaked Ladies and Sarah McLaughlan sing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings."
2. Jack Johnson sings "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer."
1. Mannheim Steamroller doing "Silent Night." Whatever happened to those guys?
WORST:
4. "Oh Holy Night." Any version. Except maybe the version Denise Williams sings during the church Christmas meeting.
3. Neil Diamond sings anything Christmas. This probably has more to do with my general disdain for Neil Diamond, a disdain Tyler calls un-American.
2. Michael McLean's Forgotten Carols. I'm sorry; I'm sure it's a Christmas tradition in your family. But go listen to "I Cry the Day That I Take the Tree Down" and then tell me with a straight face that it belongs with the likes of Bing Crosby and Karen Carpenter.
And finally, the number one worst Christmas song:
1. John Lennon and Yoko Ono's "Happy Christmas." Bleh. Somehow worse in Portuguese.
Tyler and I are approaching our seventh Christmas as a married couple. There are a couple of unresolved differences in our marriage. I would like him to eat wheat bread. He'd like me to leave him alone about the white bread. I'd like him to care just a little bit less about football (I know, that's blasphemous). He'd like me to be grateful he's not into baseball.
And most importantly right now, I'd like a real Christmas tree. Tyler would like a fake one.
Last year when we were poor teachers, I caved and we borrowed a fake tree. It was fine and I was grateful we had any tree at all, even though faking a tree is kind of like faking Christmas. This year we are wealthy teachers, and I knew that we were back to piney business as usual. Tyler, however, took last year as a precedent and assumed we were buying our own artificial holiday.
Our conversation sounded a bit like a father and a daughter when the daughter desperately wants a puppy (a conversation I happen to remember a lot about).
"But we kill it every year."
"I won't this year, I promise. I'll water it and love it and take it on a walk everyday."
"It will be a fire hazard."
"It won't. I promise, promise, promise."
Tyler's infallible logic was working until I whipped up a fresh batch of tears.
We bought a real tree.
And, as a note to anyone who comments on this, if you try to tell me how much more practical fake trees are, I wish you a lump of coal in your stocking.
This weekend we also pulled out the Christmas playlist, and I have, for your reading pleasure, my top best and worst Christmas songs.
BEST:
5. "Oh Savior Thou Who Wearest a Crown of Piercing Thorns." It's in the hymn book. Apparently 15 years long friends are picky about how this is an Easter song. Fine. I change this one to "Coventry Carol."
4. "Baby It's Cold Outside." I'm kind of partial to the Ella Fitzgerald version.
3. Barenaked Ladies and Sarah McLaughlan sing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings."
2. Jack Johnson sings "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer."
1. Mannheim Steamroller doing "Silent Night." Whatever happened to those guys?
WORST:
4. "Oh Holy Night." Any version. Except maybe the version Denise Williams sings during the church Christmas meeting.
3. Neil Diamond sings anything Christmas. This probably has more to do with my general disdain for Neil Diamond, a disdain Tyler calls un-American.
2. Michael McLean's Forgotten Carols. I'm sorry; I'm sure it's a Christmas tradition in your family. But go listen to "I Cry the Day That I Take the Tree Down" and then tell me with a straight face that it belongs with the likes of Bing Crosby and Karen Carpenter.
And finally, the number one worst Christmas song:
1. John Lennon and Yoko Ono's "Happy Christmas." Bleh. Somehow worse in Portuguese.
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